The Wide Angle Volume 2, Issue 4 June/July 1997

Smashing Through the Walls

by Marty Lipton

I don’t remember the first time I heard about scale-smashing.

It was certainly in connection with a fat rights event somewhere, but the exact year escapes me. I do know that I have been aware of the act of taking a large hammer to a bathroom scale for at least a decade and I have always thought it was a great, symbolic idea. What a way to demonstrate that We, the Fat People have broken the chains of oppression.

Now, the reality was that I had never actually smashed a scale myself. Oh, I had banished my own scale from the bathroom some years ago at the same time that I took my collection of diet books and stowed them in a box, wrapped all around with masking tape and pushed it to the back of the attic where they could no longer dictate how much cereal was enough for breakfast. The scale was, I think, under the box for awhile and finally was discarded when I moved to a new home.

The conscious rejection of that tyrannical cyclops freed my self-awareness, once I got over the fear of losing control, and I didn’t see any point in revisiting the issue.

Then the Coalition began work on the INDD Conference. When we discussed including a scale-smashing, all our eyes lit up. This would be pure fun; a chance to demonstrate just how little regard we had for a mechanism that holds most Americans in its thrall. It would also be a potential media event. We were enthusiastic.

I volunteered to find scales because I remembered seeing piles of them in local thrift stores, priced at a dollar or two apiece. This, in itself, is an interesting phenomenon. Think of it; you have a scale. You want to get rid of it. Like a religious relic, you cannot destroy it so you give it to a charity in hopes that some other sinner will find inspiration in the metal-and-plastic oracle.

The fault in logic is this: if you need a scale, how likely are you to buy one that some stranger has been standing on every morning naked and with bare, wet feet? I apologize for the image, but I think I’ve made my point. Giving a scale to charity is dumb. Just throw it away.

So I selected three derelict demons of diet domination and took them to the checkout counter. A couple of ghosts followed me there. One of them was the ghost of the conspicuous fat chick. Another was the ghost that has custody of all the mocking voices throughout my life. Together, they reminded me that one does not often see a fat woman in public with an armful of bathroom scales. The fear of being noticed rose up inside me and offered to let me take the scales back to their shelf without penalty of personal attack. I almost did. Then I remembered why I was there in the first place and kept going. After all, being noticed could be an opportunity to raise someone’s awareness.

The fear of being mocked stood a little closer. This one is a more intimate fiend and often translates into reality, society being what it is. But what the heck, this had to be as much a new experience for any nearby fat-phobics as it was for me. I felt sure that I would be gone by the time they figured out what to say.

The clerk did remark, "You couldn’t buy one scale for that price!"

I said, "I’m just going to smash them, so there’s no point buying new ones."

She looked up, surprised. Then she grinned and said, "Really? What a great idea!" I invited her to attend, then I took the scales to my car and didn’t think much about them again until that Saturday.

There was some more preparation for the scale-smashing; safety goggles, a clear plastic dropcloth to limit the flight of loose pieces, a large hammer. We also brought cameras to record the carnage. We were prepared. We each took a turn bringing the hammer down on a scale.

When my turn came, I knelt down facing the machine, raised the hammer above my head and brought it down directly on the scale. I paused just a moment, intending to hand the hammer to someone else, but instead I raised it again. And again. And yet again.

I had to destroy that scale. I had to turn it into tiny, useless pieces. Each swing of the hammer brought forth images and old hurts. Once for the doctor who told me that boys don’t date fat girls and put me on thyroid medication. Once for the boy in the 7th grade who told me I’d be cute if I lost some weight. Once for Weight Watchers and TOPS, once for fenfluramine, once for the B6 injections and the rainbow pills. Once for my mother’s statement that ‘some clothes shouldn’t be made any bigger than a size 14’ and once for the stores that agreed with her.

I had not imagined that I still had so much anger attached to a single icon of my 30-year diet history. I was smashing through barriers that held my resentment in check for a decade or more and I was killing the ghosts as they poured forth.

Finally, I stood up and raised shattered bits of the monster for the camera to see my triumph. Deep inside, I had finally faced demons that I had believed were vanquished years before. I had started out believing I was doing something socially symbolic but discovered the personal symbolism and the important catharsis that went with it. It felt wonderful, perhaps because it took me by surprise.

Afterward, we gathered up the pieces and displayed them on a table like trophies. I suppose some people thought it was a terrific social statement. Maybe some were a little scared of what happens to people who destroy scales. Others probably didn’t get it at all. It’s enough that they saw it. Maybe they’ll figure it out some day.

Will there be an INDD Conference next year? We’ve started planning it.

Will there be a scale smashing? Oh, yeah. And the scales are on me. You can come out and beat on your demons right after I take another shot at mine. Next year, it’s personal.

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